


Leftover Melodies

by Sleepless_Malice



Series: Fëanorian Week 2018 [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Feanorian week, Fëanorian Week 2018, Gen, Maglor's POV, Melancholy, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-03-29 23:24:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13937652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepless_Malice/pseuds/Sleepless_Malice
Summary: A conversation between Maedhros and Maglor the evening before they attempt to fulfill their Oath one last time.– written for Fëanorian Week 2018





	Leftover Melodies

*

“Sometimes,” Maglor said, “I wonder if, without our memories, we would still be alive.”

Far too quickly, Maedhros shook his head as if he did not wish to hear it, “No. In our lives there is nothing for it but for our love to fade and die; it’s like raindrops falling on us from the drenched leaves above, despite having not rained in weeks.”

“But how do we carry on?” Maglor hated the pathetic sound of his voice; hated it that he knew the answer already.

It made no difference, just as it did not make any sense. These days, it never did, no matter what.

A hand ruffling through his filthy tresses, the kind of touch which once had brought him comfort accompanied his brother’s words. “It drives us; it ensnares us and urges us on. We simply do, because we must.”

A pause, then Maglor said, “Because we cannot.” – _‘die’,_ he thought, choking off the word before it leaves his throat.

Voice thick with sorrow, Maglor went on, “Do you think, they knew they would die that day?”

They’d had the exact conversation before. Again and again, with the answer always the same. Why he asked, he did not know. He never knew. Yet he asked, again.

The wisdom of fools.

The solace of melancholy.

He waited for the sarcastic remark upon his incompetence that never came; there was neither sarcasm nor irony in Maedhros’s voice when he spoke. Sadness, yes, perhaps the same melancholy that gnawed at him. The wish to simply embrace him was clearly there, to let him weep at his shoulder as he had done as a child, but tears, like happiness, had long-since become a stranger. “Had hoped for it, you mean?” Maedhros said, sighing without quite doing it. “Perhaps. Death by the enemy’s sword is the kinder death –“

“Than vegetating as we do? Undoubtedly, yes.” Surely, Maglor looked as if he wanted to argue as he spoke, but as always, Maedhros would not indulge such spiteful bitterness.  

 _‘Death by your hand would be the kindest fate, brother mine’_ Those words, too, remained unspoken. He had said them, once, in a moment of weakness when all their pain and sorrow had seemed too great a burden.

The sun was just about to set, its bottom already touching the sea that lay calm before them, small waves lapping at the shore, a gentle breeze caressing his skin. Maglor wished it was not so. Of late he preferred the surf to break violently against the cliffs, its boom empty and echoing – foreboding like the sounds of funeral drums.

Strong and violent.

Consuming.

_Devouring._

Yellow was consumed by orange, an almost golden hue before clouds of toxic purple illuminated the sky above them. ‘ _Quite picturesque’_ , a long-since forgotten part of him remarked, whilst the murderer he had become whispered that soon the darkness of the night would offer its cold embrace and shield their bodies from all enemies.

Another chance to pursue their doomed quest. Their last chance, perhaps. Word had reached them that soon the Host of the Valar would depart, and with it, their father’s legacy would be gone, forever beyond their reach whilst the Oath remained, whispering in their minds until the world was remade.

_‘And the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains.’_

With the Silmarils gone they would be confined to linger in a world that carried on without them until they were no more than distant memories in the minds of those who now ruled. Lost to the passing of years until only legends and myths spoke their names, remembered their deeds.

Staring towards the horizon, Maglor closed his eyes to breathe in the air, salty and cool. Lost in prayer, silently begging for his life to end that very night, he did not feel his brother’s elbow nudge his ribs, despite the urgency that spoke from it.

Darkness was falling, at last. And in his heart, there was a darkness of an entirely different sort. “It is calling for us, even now,” Maglor sighed in unease.

It was calling. Neither he nor Maedhros could deny it. Night after night it whispered. Day after day. And within the cries of their father’s oath, the enemy’s lies wove and tangled until it was all but one.

In truth, it whispered louder than ever. The words were out of Maglor’s mouth before he could think better of it, “I wished they had taken your ability to hear, rather than your hand.”

A surprised chuckle of bitter irony fled Maedhros’s lips.

The rough grip of fingers through torn fabric shook Maglor out of his numbness, too rough to be comforting. “My apologies. I sit here. I hear the words. I hear its call, hear it day and night, numb to the bones, cold and bitter.”

As always, Maedhros’s voice was calm, strangely detached. “Such is our fate, in a world disguised by memories of more pleasant days.”

Slowly, Maglor tilted his head so that he looked right into his brother’s face, which was not much more than skin and bones with speckles of caked mud adorning it. Perfectly suited for the outlaws they had become, strangers in a strange land.

“A world in which nothing is left for us but to fade and die.”

Darkness finally began to creep across the land, ushering away the last remains of purple against the sky.

“We should go.”

This time Maglor shook his head. “Should not. But must,” he said, feeling strangely determined as half-forgotten melodies singing of past joy mingled with  the hope that it would end this night filled his mind, spurring his feet onwards.

As they left the rocky shore, raindrops began to fall from a starless sky, which meant that at least Eärendil’s star was not shining overhead, mocking their doomed quest.

**Author's Note:**

> Certainly inspired by the last chapters of bunn's story Quenta Narquelion, and the book I’m currently reading (The Buried Giant). Thanks to raiyana for the beta <3


End file.
